The new you.

Summary:

The 11th Doctor decides that drowning his sorrows is a good way to pass the night. After all, being 907 years old in a 20-odd year old body sometimes takes its toll.

Notes:

Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at The Prydonian. Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on The Prydonian collection profile.

Work Text:

Drinking was a silly human socialising design which the Doctor had no time for. So when he found himself locked in his bedroom with three bottles of wine, he didn’t exactly know what he was doing.

But Amy and Rory were enjoying each others company, and the Doctor would do anything to break the monotony and make himself feel slightly better. Not that he was sure it would make him feel any better; but, all of those humans can’t be wrong, and he was in a new body which, well, gave him the excuse of experimentation if nothing else.

And so he uncorked the bottle and poured some into a generous sized glass, using his sonic screwdriver to turn on, and up, some music. The first sip made him cringe; the ethanol had a strange taste to it, and it burnt his throat as he swallowed, but he soon got used to it as he glugged more down.

When he uncorked the second bottle, he was actually enjoying himself. Well, he thought he was anyway. He was lying on his back on the bed, but the world was still spinning around him. He smiled to himself, and nearly choked on his next sip. Drinking while horizontal was not the best of ideas. It was dark, and classical music floated round his head. He could almost see it in the air, and it made him feel unnaturally happy.

And then he felt cold, and a shiver passed down his spine. He took another drink to try and get rid of the feeling, but it didn’t go. Did this always happen? Out of habit, he raised the glass to his lips and when he lowered it again, a face swam above him.

He sat up, alarmed, and looked around. There was definitely a shadow in the corner that hadn’t been there before. He thought so, at least. It was hard to tell. Everything was spinning.

“Hello,” it said, and he jumped.

“Hi,” he replied warily. “…How?”

The shadow laughed, and stepped forward.

“Good job you left me a way to get out, eh?”

The Doctor shook his head, and ended up momentarily disorientated. “I wouldn’t.”

The bed creaked and lowered as the Master sat down in the Doctor’s personal space. The Doctor didn’t move.

“No, I don’t think you would. But he did.”

“He is me.”

“Was. You’re better. I like you better.”

The Doctor snorted, “You hate me.”

“I saved your life.”

“Not mine.” He paused, “Are they gone?”

“What?”

“The drums?”

The Master laughed.

“How did you get out?”

He laughed more.

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I am not.” He slurred.

“You’re slurring.”

“I’m not.”

“How much have you drank? You would never drink before.”

“I’d never shoot a gun before.”

“You shot someone?”

The Doctor shrugged.

“I really, really like you.”

“What do you want?” The Doctor spat, taking another drink.

The Master clapped his hands together and positively cackled.

“No apologies? No forgiveness?”

“I forgot about you.”

“I know.”

“You came back.”

“Yes.”

“Why? To haunt me?”

“I’m not dead.”

“Right.”

“So…?”

The Doctor attempted to look the Master in the eye.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said, and the Master smirked.

“You know, I think we could get on.” He snatched the bottle and took a big gulp of it, “Why are you drinking?”

“Felt like it.”

“But you don’t…”

“I didn’t.”

“Ever.”

“I feel different. This body, it’s young.”

“Trying to recapture your youth?”

The Doctor drunkenly gestured to himself.

“You’re more aggressive. What happened to the whole pacifist thing?”

“Didn’t really work for me.”

“Good. You were turning into a stuffy old git.”

“Thanks. I suppose that’s much worse than you being a psychopath.”

“Madman in a box.”

“Two madmen in a box.”

The Master laughed again.

“Because I like you; I won’t attempt to take over the world while you’re still pissed.”

“Very kind of you.”

“It’ll be much funnier to watch you try to stop me with a hangover.”

And then he drained the rest of the bottle, stood up, clapped the Doctor on the shoulder and was gone.

The Doctor huffily uncorked the last bottle and poured it into the glass.

He woke up the next morning with a crippling headache, a dry mouth, and a nagging feeling that he should be worried about something. He tripped over one of the bottles and stubbed his toe, leading to a lot of Gallifreyan cursing. He filled a glass with water on his way from the bathroom and staggered into the control room where Amy and Rory were sat looking worried.

“It’s midday! Where have you been?” Amy said, as he walked in. He winced, and she frowned as she took in his haggard appearance.

“Are you okay?”

“Why are you in your pants?” Rory said, torn between worry and amusement.

The Doctor looked down at himself, and shrugged.

“Can a man not wander round in his pants in his own ship these days? I must’ve missed the meeting where that law was passed.”

“Ooh, someone’s grumpy this morning.” Amy said, narrowing her eyes. “Hang on. I know that look. Are you hungover?”

The Doctor frowned, “Of course not.”

He jabbed at a few buttons, and glared at the TARDIS as it lurched and caused him to stagger sideways. He muttered something else in Gallifreyan and Amy and Rory glanced at each other, confused and slightly scared.

A tut sounded from the door and the Doctor’s head snapped up.

“Language.”

The source of the nagging worry shot to the front of his mind, accompanied by a pale face with blond hair which then appeared out of the shadows and looked him up and down.

“And you really do need to learn to dress yourself in the morning. Remember all of those lectures we had on propriety?”

He sniggered, “No, actually; you probably don’t. I’m pretty sure we both failed that module. What did we do again? Steal a TARDIS, take a trip to Earth and come back with hangovers? I suppose two out of three isn’t bad…”

He looked out of the window.

“My mistake, three out of three.”

The Doctor looked outside and groaned. Rory and Amy looked at him, both now genuinely scared.

“Doctor, who is this?”

The Master tutted once again, “He is being very rude, standing in his boxers with a hangover and not introducing me to his friends.” He smiled, and it was unsettling.

“So, should we begin the fun?”

The Master headed for the door, and the Doctor finally sprung into action, pressing a couple of buttons and making the TARDIS lurch in such a way that ended with the Master on the floor and the Doctor standing over him with fire in his eyes.

“You’re fighting back! I love that.”

“You’re not leaving me. Not this time,” he positively growled, and the Master smirked up at him.